Quotes about spite, page 10
A man does what he must - in spite of personal consequences, in spite of obstacles and dangers and pressures - and that is the basis of all human morality.
quote by Winston Churchill
Added by Lucian Velea
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Birth complex plagues.
With low birth, one is conscious
Of one’s birth when with high births
In spite of one’s elevated growth.
With high birth, one is conscious
Of one’s birth when with low births,
In spite of one’s pecuniary status.
04.07.2011
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Vulnerable One isn’t So
How high we build our hopes!
How low they turn out!
Not a good look, a widow,
Not an affluent, at middle age,
She repelled my approaches,
In spite of friendliness,
In spite of secret moments.
I think her qualm warns her
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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When a man and a woman have an overwhelming passion for each other, it seems to me, in spite of such obstacles dividing them as parents or husband, that they belong to each other in the name of Nature, and are lovers by Divine right, in spite of human convention or the laws.
quote by Nicolas de Chamfort
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The Sniffle
In spite of her sniffle
Isabel's chiffle.
Some girls with a sniffle
Would be weepy and tiffle;
They would look awful,
Like a rained-on waffle,
But Isabel's chiffle
In spite of her sniffle.
Her nose is more red
With a cold in her head,
But then, to be sure,
Her eyes are bluer.
Some girls with a snuffle,
Their tempers are uffle.
But when Isabel's snivelly
She's snivelly civilly,
And when she's snuffly
She's perfectly luffly.
poem by Ogden Nash
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Days of 1901
The exceptional thing about him was
that in spite of all his loose living,
his vast sexual experience,
and the fact that usually
his attitude matched his age,
in spite of this there were moments—
extremely rare, of course—when he gave the impression
that his flesh was almost virginal.
His twenty-nine-year-old beauty,
so tested by sensual pleasure,
would sometimes strangely remind one
of a boy who, somewhat awkwardly, gives
his pure body to love for the first time.
poem by Constantine P. Cavafy
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All Is Well
Whate'er you dream, with doubt possessed,
Keep, keep it snug within your breast,
And lay you down and take your rest;
And when you wake, to work again,
The wind it blows, the vessel goes,
And where and whither, no one knows.
'Twill all be well: no need of care;
Though how it will, and when, and where,
We cannot see, and can't declare.
In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,
'Tis not in vain, and not for nought,
The wind it blows, the ship it goes,
Though where and whither, no one knows
poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
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Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science … In spite of difference of soil and climate, of language and manners, of laws and customs, — in spite of things silently gone out of mind, and things violently destroyed, the Poet binds together by passion and knowledge the vast empire of human society, as it is spread over the whole earth, and over all time … Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge — it is as immortal as the heart of man.
quote by William Wordsworth
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Sonnet 59: Dear, Why Make You More
Dear, why make you more of a dog than me?
If he do love, I burn, I burn in love;
If he wait well, I never thence would move;
If he be fair, yet but a dog can be.
Little he is, so little worth is he;
He barks, my songs thine own voice oft doth prove:
Bidden perhaps he fetcheth thee a glove,
But I unbid, fetch ev'n my soul to thee.
Yet while I languish, him that bosom clips,
That lap doth lap, nay lets in spite of spite
This sour-breath'd mate taste of those sugar'd lips.
Alas, if you grant only such delight
To witless thngs, then Love I hope (since wit
Becomes a clog) will soon ease me of it.
poem by Philip Sidney
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Wherefore and Whither - 0102 - For Annie Boudet
Now you'd know where fate's flowing if you abide with me,
and wonder where we're going, what could provide the key?
The future you'd be knowing, how will life fare for thee?
but all's in vain, this trowing, when we lack liberty.
Ringed golden debt is owing, yet you remain too free.
The fused frustrations growing attack you, fair chérie,
for Time's swift furrow's showing no longer twenty three.
Though sun each morrow's flowing, it sets too speedily.
There'll be no plights bestowing, lest spite spite enmity,
though sorrow may be sowing, we haste to heresy.
Away you should be stowing all memory of me.
(3 October 1975)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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